Thunderbolt and Lightning
by CaptainEmo
Summary: COMPLETE! Aziraphale and Crowley have a bit of a misunderstanding, and Aziraphale's distant relative comes to visit. R&R please!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I own nothing remotely related to _Good Omens_, except for a paperback copy and a newfound fascination with tartan. ;P_

* * *

"Let's go to the Dog & Duck," said Crowley, leaning on a stack of books. "Come on, you know you want to." He flashed a serpentine smile.

Aziraphale nudged his friend's elbow off the stack and proceeded to straighten it up. "I can't, I have to work. I _do_ own this shop, you know. I'm not like you, who can just conjure up limitless funds as you please."

"You, angel, are _exactly_ like me," Crowley said smoothly. The angel's head shot up to glare at the demon. "In a strictly financial sense, of course." Crowley flashed his best, most persuasive grin. Which apparently had no effect, because Aziraphale then pointed out that despite how he would dearly miss Crowley's hysterical sense of humor, he really had some work to be getting on with and it was a bit late, wasn't it?

The demon took the hint and sauntered out.

* * *

Several hours later, the angel was sipping a cup of Earl Grey and perusing his first-edition of _Pilgrim's Progress_ -- always good for a chuckle -- when there came a knock at the door. Crowley, he knew, Crowley who was probably too drunk to stand up properly. The knocking became more insistent. Hastily he put away the book and unlocked the door.

He was right -- it was Crowley, swaying gently in the glow of the solitary streetlamp. "Hi!" he cried a little too loudly.

"Hello," Aziraphale said curtly. "How many times must we go over this, dear boy? It is _not safe_ for you to be getting drunk when I'm not there!"

Crowley seemed unfazed. For all the good it did, Aziraphale might as well be talking to a squirrel. Or an platypus, more like.(1) "I _luuuurve_ you, angel, ya know?" slurred the demon. "I theenk I do... do I? Yeah..."

"I -- er -- _lurve_ you too," said the angel hastily. "Now let's get you inside and sober you up, hmm?"

"Yeah, '_sober me up_,' I can dig that." Crowley tried hard to put on his most seductive, most smooth-operating flash-bastard look. To Aziraphale, it appeared as though Crowley was going to be sick.

"Oh, dear. Yes, let's get you inside." Aziraphale's mothering instincts took over and he steered his friend inside, placing his arm around Crowley's shoulder to guide him, and quietly shut the door.

The angel turned around to find the demon face-to-face and still swaying slightly. "Crowley, what are you doing? Ha--" The other's face was suddenly half an inch away, Crowley's mouth coming directly for his own, and he could feel the demon's slightly sour breath on his skin.

"Sobering up," the demon whispered.

Aziraphale, stepping back, placed his hands on the demon's shoulders and pushed him into a chair. "You know that was not what I meant," he replied, his face serious. He thrust a flowered teacup at him. "Here, drink this."

Crowley sputtered. "What are _you_ doing?"

There was a pause. Aziraphale didn't want to put it like this, but it had to be said. "Thwarting," he answered quietly.

"But..." In its inebriated state Crowley's brain flailed. "But I luuurve you!"

"I know you do. I... 'lurve'... you back -- _as a friend_," Aziraphale enunciated. "Like I love all of God's children. Even those who've Fallen."

"Sauntered Vaguely Downwards," Crowley muttered. "And I don't see what everyone else has to do with it."

The angel didn't know what to say. "I love you but I'm not 'in love' with you... Is that how you say it?"

The demon snorted loudly, the alcohol beginning to fade. "Out of every line in the world, you pick that one? I would expect better than that."

Aziraphale was not to be deterred. "The point is that angels are sexless, and you know that. You shouldn't expect more from me than friendship."

"Zeus wasn't sexless." Crowley looked petulant.

"Yes, well, Zeus was too curious for his own good, wasn't he?" Aziraphale said, more sharply than intended. He hated being reminded of his second cousin, and Crowley darn well knew it.

The demon stood up abruptly, the alcohol having left his system. "Zeus also knew how to take a risk. He knew how to _live_, man."

Somewhere inside Aziraphale a vocabulary geek was jumping up and down. "We're immortal."

Crowley took off his shades and glared. "Not the point, angel." Returning the shades to his nose he strode over to the door. "Bloody stupid wanker," he muttered.

Aziraphale hastened to the door as the demon's silhouette faded into the landscape. The vocabulary geek was screaming for justice. He didn't use the word himself, but had heard enough people use it to get a general idea, and there was correcting to be done. "I'm not a wanker," he yelled into the night, "that's the whole point!"

* * *

(1) Aziraphale, being ethereal, had quite the affinity for small woodland creatures, and therefore a squirrel would have gotten the message better than a drunken Crowley. However, platypuses are altogether stupid animals, and would not even understand if a bug jumped out of the bushes and danced around yelling, "Eat me!"

* * *

_Reviews please! Let me know if the characters are a bit OOC; for example, I say "dig it," but I'm not sure if Crowley would._


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley adjusted his shades and shoved a cassette into the Bentley's tape player. He was angry. Not at Aziraphale exclusively, but at the whole world. And considering what had happened the last time he drank, he took to the Bentley for comfort. For a while he just drove aimlessly, but for a solid hour now he had simply driven around the same roundabout at 90 mph, never leaving, just driving around and around and generally pissing people off.

He was feeling better already.

The cassette started. "Ooh, you make me live... You're my best _fri-ee-end_..." Annoyed, Crowley hit the eject button. Even the _radio_ was preferable to this.

A commercial for plate-glass windows ended and and a simple guitar melody floated through the speakers. A very familiar, very cheerful guitar. "And I wonder... Are you thinking of me? 'Cause I'm thinking of you..." Oh _no_. BBMak. Crowley scowled, fervently wishing he had never thought of boy bands, and turned off the knob. Behind him several angry drivers honked their horns, and the demon smiled humorlessly.

* * *

Mythology, unlike Betamacks, Pauly Shore, or bellbottomed pants, has more or less been around since civilization began. Four thousand years later, and the old stories are as well-preserved as when Greek women sat around the temple praying to Demeter. The attitude has changed since then, however -- unlike when it originated, today the general consensus seems to be that the stories are just that -- stories. A load of tosh some imaginative Mediterranean man made up one day to explain the state of the universe. And if it wasn't -- well, then they had been praying to the wrong god. 

They were half-right in these assumptions. They most certainly had been praying to the correct god, but very few people were aware that mythology was a compilation of translations for events that had actually occurred. And Zeus? An angel, one of the higher-ups, who had merely gotten a bit too curious about certain human practices and had decided to try them out. All that jazz with the lightning? Simply sparks from his flaming sword, which he used to impress mortal women. The actual _mythology_ came later, when he got inventive. In all truth, the stories were merely creative versions of things that had occurred amongst the otherworldly elite, but the humans wouldn't know that. In most of the stories, the different characters were actually members of his own family (1).

Eventually Metatron became aware of what Zeus was doing -- though, thankfully, he never realized he was part of the mythology as well, or there would have been an almighty scuffle. As it was God let him off lightly, considering that Zeus was immensely popular and had turned an entire climate zone onto religion (2). In the end Zeus was firmly ordered to live on Earth permanently, without any further _canoodling_ with mortal women. If he was caught in another of these liaisons, he would surely Fall.

Saying that Zeus was an abnormally cocky person is like saying Emily Dickinson was an abnormally shy person. Forty-two hundred and seventy-two years later, a son was born.

Zeus Fell, and hard. Most of those in Heaven blamed the child for all this, and he was ostracized by the majority of his angelic family. That is, except for his third cousin, who had spent an extraordinarily long time on Earth and had grown used to their strange charm; in their fondness for humans they were linked, however weakly.

At the moment it was the day after Crowley stormed out, a fact Aziraphale was trying not to think about as he tidied up the bookshelves. He was dusting off his copy of _Walden_ when the bell chimed above the door, and he found the son of Zeus standing in his shop.

* * *

(1) His second cousin Aziraphale, for example, was represented by Prometheus, who gave the gift of fire to mankind. The bit about having his liver pecked out every day for eternity Aziraphale did not find amusing, but Zeus claimed he was tipsy when that bit came about and it just happened to stick. This is just one of the reasons that Aziraphale has never felt all that inclined towards his cousin. 

(2) As for Zeus inexplicably being represented as the major god in these stories, the angel insisted that he had nothing to do with it and that it had been the Greeks' reverence that had caused it. God, on his part, remained skeptical but was feeling benevolent that day and decided to let it slide.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but the character of Franz. And, fyi, the inclusion of Seth Cohen in this chapter is probably not going to be anything extended or significant in other chapters; it's just there to entertain me. _

* * *

"Aziraphale, how are you? It's been years!" The son of Zeus gave him a hug around the middle.

"Hello, Franz," said Aziraphale, patting his cousin awkwardly on the back. "It has been, hasn't it?" He knew very well it had been at least five years -- since Franz's funeral -- that they had seen each other. "Well, er, have a seat, will you? How goes it in Purgatory?"

Franz sighed lightly. "As always, I suppose. Not all of us are so lucky as to work around here." He smiled genially. "The support group is getting quite lively... A young girl just joined the group a few months ago and she's having a terrible time of it, poor dear."

"How young?"

"Sixteen."

"Oh, my."

"I know. Tragic, tragic story; apparently her cat was quite fat."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me the cat...!"

Franz nodded sadly. "Poor girl, it settled on her chest while she was sleeping and blocked her airways. Heavy sleeper, you know. She refuses to let it go, the dear. Keeps insisting the cat wouldn't've done something like that." Pause. "Ah, well. Debbie says hello, by the way. How's the bookshop going? How's, er..." Franz hesitated, the mild expression on his face flickering for a moment. "How's your friend?"

"He's fine," Aziraphale spoke curtly. "The bookshop as well. Now, dear boy, I don't mean to sound rude, but what are you doing here?"

"Vacation. Over There we don't really have the, well, power to hand out commendations, so they said to take a few days off instead." His smile faltered for a moment.

"You know," pondered Aziraphale, "I've never quite understood why exactly you work there."

Franz chuckled warmly. "Job's a job, eh, Zira?"

* * *

It was approximately four in the afternoon and Crowley found himself sitting alone at the Ritz. Savagely he bit into a raspberry scone. This was depressing. Perhaps later he would go home and take it out on the houseplants.

Suddenly a teenage boy came up from behind him and plopped in the seat opposite. Now, Crowley had seen a lot of things in the millennia he'd been on Earth, but not once had a stranger just gone and _sat at his table_. Lesser men, or rather men-shaped creatures, might have gibbered. Crowley, however, merely took another bite of scone and inquired as politely as possible what on bloody Earth did he think he was doing.

The stranger, who appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen, gave him a sympathetic look. "You seemed a smidgen _down_, buddy," he said by way of explanation. "Now, my counseling skills have come in handy quite often when my brother was brooding, so I thought I could be of some help." He smiled brightly.

Crowley put on his best Are You Kidding Me face and cocked an eyebrow.

"All righty then, I tried. It's not like I have anything better to do." The teenager went to get up, then hesitated. "You're sure you aren't covertly dying to spill your deepest, darkest secrets to a complete and utter stranger? No?" Crowley raised the other eyebrow. "Okay, fine, I tried. Uh, have a nice day," he added awkwardly.

"What's your name, kid?"

The boy turned around in surprise. "Uh, Seth. Seth Cohen at your service." He pretended to give a tiny salute.

"You're a very weird kid, Seth, are you aware of that?"

Seth bobbed his head around in what the demon took to be a nod. "Yeah, yeah, I've actually heard that before. Several times, in fact. It's a wonder that I have a girlfriend at all, guv'nor. Then again she _is_ not talking to me right now, hence why I'm at the Ritz _by myself_..." Crowley sensed that this rambling could continue on for some time and ceased it with a stealthy gesture that suddenly caused Seth to open his mouth repeatedly, fishlike, trying to discover where his voice had got to. His eyes shot to the demon's shades; judging by the shiver that passed across his face, it had occurred to him that the sunglasses might not be just for UV protection. In short, he came as close to dithering as it was possible without actually dithering, a feat that surprised himself. His mouth fell open again.

Crowley tapped his fingers against the table and Seth let out a squeak. "Um." The demon nudged the sunglasses up his nose. "You -- well, um -- you know we're inside, right? Right, of course you do. Well. Sunglasses aren't always that necessary when indoors." To occupy his fingers he ran a hand through his mass of brown curls -- not the best idea. Hair stuck up all over his head, tornadolike. If Adam Young had curls that didn't belong in the twentieth century, then Seth Cohen had curls that didn't belong in _any _century. Period.

"Are you insinuating that I take these off?" hissed the demon, indicating the sunglasses.

"However you so feel inclined." Immediately Seth wished he hadn't said that. Approximately one second later Seth was beyond wishing -- every crevice of his mind, every nook and cranny in his brain, was paralyzed from the sight of what lay behind the sunglasses. Had he been able to think, he would have thought he was having a brain aneurysm.

Crowley slid the shades back and grinned devilishly. "You okay?" The American nodded vaguely, eyes clouded. "Still inclined to shell out advice?" Another vague nod. "Just _ducky_, then." The overt sarcasm in his voice dropped a few notches. "Yesterday I got drunk, slobbered all over a friend, and it didn't turn out all that mutual. What d'you have to say about that, doctor?"

In his near-catatonic state Seth mumbled a response. Rolling his eyes, the demon tapped his fingers on the table. "That sucks," the boy echoed louder. "Go back and apologize. The question is, do you value the friendship over something more?" His head clunked onto the table.

"Bugger all this for a lark," Crowley muttered. "Americans are so bloody nosy." He got up and strode off, snapping his fingers.

Several yards away, over at the table, Seth lifted his head up and looked around dazedly.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but a humble combover'd character named Franz._

* * *

It was a dark and _stormy_ night (1). In the light fog, anyone gazing out a window could see a vague figure striding across the avenue, looking (presumably) straight ahead and clad in a billowing black trenchcoat. Certain people, passing by the aforementioned window, might have been reminded of a certain Chosen One from a certain movie franchise. Coming to the sidewalk, the figure surreptitiously turned his head left and right -- funny, did he look both ways _after_ crossing the street? -- and entered through the door of one of the adjacent buildings.

Had anyone been watching the street who also happened to possess X-ray vision, they would have seen that the stranger was as inexplicable to the employees of the establishment entered. Donning sleek, impenetrable sunglasses and several layers of black, nearly sweeping the floor with the trenchcoat, the man oozed assassin. Maybe a fashionable Russian spy. No, no -- dark, tragic Renaissance man with noticeably chiseled cheekbones, clearly. A blond teenage girl at register three smiled faintly, putting her peripheral vision to good use.

The man turned suddenly, the coat swooshing behind him. The girl -- "Amanda," her nametag claimed -- immediately snapped out of her reverie and tried to look as though she hadn't just been imagining him, her, and a romantic lighthouse setting. Or tried to look intriguingly disillusioned, at least, although she wasn't quite sure exactly how that worked. All she was definitely certain of was that he was currently striding towards her.

Amanda beamed and attempted to blink coquettishly, although it came off more like she had something in her eye. "_Hi! _How are you?" she nearly hollered. The man ignored her, which was just as well. After being ignored by roughly 45 of customers, one got used to it. Ignorance of the cheery greeting was as much a part of the routine as the greeting itself.

She scanned the sole item and dropped it into a bag, smiling with a disgustingly large amount of pep. "That'll be five pounds."

Tossing a five-pound note onto the counter, Crowley seized the bag and walked out.

* * *

Aziraphale was brushing his teeth (2), thinking about nothing in particular and looking at himself in the mirror. He hadn't really _looked_ at himself in a long time; he couldn't recall when he had last paid attention to the face staring at him. And why should he? It was merely a physical form; a house, if you will. Where he actually _lived_ was somewhere inside, huddled in a corner.

He gargled with some mouthwash and, spitting, gave himself a last look in the mirror -- for some reason, it was difficult to look away. And then, in the back of his mind, it clicked into place that he didn't recognize the face there. The blond hair, combed back neatly? The round blue eyes and straight Roman nose? The small chin? The only thing he visibly recognized was the collar of his flannel pajamas, poking up from the bottom of the frame. Those were reliable pajamas. As for the rest of the image? He wasn't so sure anymore. The eyes stared at him like miniature circles of sky: blank, pale and hinting at something much bigger than the human mind could comprehend. And although Aziraphale was undeniably ethereal, one couldn't spend much more than three centuries in a human form without taking on some of its characteristics.

Padding down the hall he could have sworn he heard a soft twang of strings -- harp music, perhaps? -- but shook his head. He was overtired, undoubtedly. Franz dropping in unexpectedly had put quite a strain on his hospitality. The flat had only one bedroom, and being a gracious host he had given it up to his cousin; not that this mattered much, since he still didn't sleep all that often. But still. Franz technically didn't need to sleep either, being a employee in Purgatory's Initial Adjustment Department, but he had lived as a human for nearly forty-two years and habits were difficult to break (3). So, therefore, Aziraphale was relegated to a cup of midnight cocoa and a blanket on the couch. Well, he supposed, that was the angelic thing to do. Giving up your bed to a distant relative was exactly the right thing to do, and he shouldn't feel any twinge of ill will about it. That being said, however, he would have preferred it if Franz had called first...

There was no mistaking it this time; there definitely was music floating down the hall. And what was more, it seemed to be coming from his room. Aziraphale snuck over to the doorway and into the room, over to the radio, where the soft sounds of guitar strings emanated. He glanced at the lumpy silhouette of the bedcovers. Franz was most certainly asleep. Turning back to the radio, Aziraphale's hand was on the dial when he paused. "_If Heaven and Hell­_..." He withdrew his hand slowly. "_Decide that they both are satisfied, and illuminate the NO's on their vacancy signs... If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, I will follow you into the dark."_ The song continued but Aziraphale didn't hear it, pressing hard on the switch. Well, that was a bit jarring. The angel tiptoed out of the room and closed the door quietly on the sleeping Franz, shuffling down the hall in thought.

Humans were quite tricky beings. One could spend thousands of years among them, and they still managed to turn around and surprise you. This was one of those times, Aziraphale supposed. Just the mention of Up There and Down Below had disturbed his personal sense of peace. Or of tranquility, anyway, which was nearly as good. He sat down on the couch and pondered the Crowley situation, pulling on a blanket. It had bothered him, that was undeniable. In general the entire concept of it made him feel a bit squirmy and troubled. And guilty, of course; not only for turning the demon away, but for even having acted in a way that made him think it was possible, however unconsciously.

Aziraphale glanced hesitantly at his perfectly manicured fingernails. He'd never done it himself of course, but he'd seen countless humans do it when distressed, which he most definitely was. Cautiously he brought his hand up and tried biting his nails, but it was no use. Disgusting habit. Now they were probably _ruined_.

Another wave of guilt washed over him. Not simply washed, in fact, than splashed him in the face and left him soaking. He was worrying about his _nails_, for Peter's sake, when Crowley was who-knew-where. Perhaps he had been a tad too harsh last night. There was no other way to say it, really, but Crowley had been drunk. Absurdly, obliviously, completely drunk. He probably hadn't even realized what he was doing. To think that the demon had been aware... well, the idea was preposterous. And where was Crowley now? Aziraphale was worried. The last time they'd gotten in a fight was in the fourteenth century; in the end Crowley wound up in Sicily and had been inconveniently discorporated by a man named Don. That was his recollection of the incident, anyway. For all he knew the demon could be in Egypt by now. Or his apartment, murdering poor innocent houseplants. Or _Hell_. And whose fault was that?

Aziraphale sat there in silence. Crowley must hate him.

* * *

Crowley hated himself.

He sat straightbacked on the cool white leather sofa, forcing himself to listen to the James Brown album he'd bought and specifically not dancing. This was his punishment.

As he leaned into the cushions the strains of "I Feel Good" floated through the flat. How ironic. James Brown might've been feeling it, but Crowly was outraged. He was a bloody idiot, wasn't he, going around and hitting on Aziraphale. _Aziraphale_, of all people! And, to top it off, none of it was true! That was the kicker. Sure, Crowley _had_ kind of come on to him, but that had been done before. On multiple personae -- at one point he'd even hit on Zeus as a joke (4). But _Aziraphale_? The angel wore _tartan_, for somebody's sake. No wonder everyone thought he was a poofter.

And he didn't even _know _-- he didn't know that people saw him that way. Or any way, come to think of it. Aziraphale may have had angelic intelligence, but he didn't have street smarts. Obviously. He didn't know how to read people; he could feel for them, he could understand their emotions, but he could not understand them socially. A sarcastic comment about the way he said "bebop" could completely miss him. Or he could merely ignore it; he was hard to read himself sometimes. Crowley was a master of almost any social situation, but occasionally even he had difficulty distinguishing whether Aziraphale was being dumb or just ignoring what had been said. It was because he was angelic, Crowley supposed, that it was difficult to _get_ him now and then. Most of the time Crowley simply laughed at the way he said "bebop."

_Bebop_. The angel was hopeless.

And so was he. He was a stupid, stupid person who enjoyed partaking in drink.

* * *

(1) Somewhat Tepid Outside, Raining Mildly, and just generally Yucky.

(2) Technically, being ethereal, he could just wish them clean, but he rather liked going about things properly.

(3) Anyone who was around him when he had a bit too much Scotch could vouch for that. He had been in an (unsuccessful) barbershop quartet in the '70s and tended to break into doo-wop routines when tipsy.

(4) The conversation went something like this:

"I heard about the cow thing -- bummer. Animal lover, eh, Z?"

"Mmm?"

"Sssnakesss your fansssy?"

* * *

_REVIEWS PLEASE! Thanks guys ;-)_


	5. Chapter 5

_DISCLAIMER: As always, I own nothing but the characters of Franz and Amanda. I am but a humble fanfiction writer, and have no money to buy the rights even if I wanted to._

* * *

Aziraphale tidied up the couch and wandered into the shop to see Franz chastising their one customer.

"That's not very polite, you know. You ought to practice a smidgen more decorum." The combover'd head turned back to the register. "Have a good day."

"But—"

"Good _day_." The customer left, looking irritable. Swiftly Aziraphale strode past Franz and locked the door, briskly flipping the sign to _Sorry, we're closed—try tomorrow!_. He then rounded on his cousin.

"What was all that about?"

"She asked directions to the nearest Fox Books."

"Well, that is not very polite, is it?"

"I know. I told her. Now—" Franz settled into his psychiatrist face. "What is the matter?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Franz arched his left eyebrow (1). "You've been... _mopey_." He made quotation marks in the air. "That is what the kids say, isn't it? Yes, mopey."

"Derived from the verb 'to mope,' I take it," Aziraphale presumed.

"Yes, that. Why are you being mopey?"

"I didn't suppose I was."

Franz glanced at the ground. Another difficult one. He saw it all the time at the support group, as people came and left. They refused to admit being upset, even though it was clear something was wrong. He had become a Jedi master of sorts, reading people, and he didn't need the Force to do it either. The only problem was when they refused to talk it out. People were so... _obstinate_, sometimes. Ah well. Might as well revert to the secret weapon.

"You know how I cheer up?" Franz asked casually.

"Hmm?"

"I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad."

Aziraphale thought about it. "Mm. It sounds like a rather good idea."

"That's because it is. Go on..."

The angel glanced around the bookshop, eyes scanning the various titles. "To begin with... books. Books, Christmas music, Christmas spirit, goodwill, doing good deeds, reading, drinking tea, the Ritz—" There was a hesitation. "Tea at the Ritz with Crowley, books of prophecy—"

Franz's head turned a minuscule amount. A hesitation obviously indicated the problem lay with Crowley. Either that or the quality of tea at the Ritz these days, but that idea was laughable. Crowley must have done something... what would Aziraphale do to hurt anyone? He was an angel, sure, but he wasn't one of those vengeful snobbish angels. He was kind. After all, he had welcomed Franz with open arms, hadn't he, where Up There he had only been gossiped about. Where he had simply been the scandal of the week. Of course, they _couldn't_ blame Zeus for such blasphemy; no, it was Franz and his mother who had been ridiculed. And yet, Aziraphale had bothered to get to know him.

"—magic tricks, the gavotte—"

"Aziraphale?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you feel sufficiently cheerful yet?"

"Oh, yes. Very much so, my dear."

Franz scrutinized Aziraphale with the face of someone who had spent the past five years listening to bad liars. "Then I'm wrong if I guess that something happened with Crowley."

Aziraphale had many talents, but keeping an closed, straight face was not one of them. He appeared to be on the edge of dithering.

"Let me guess: he had a bit too much wine, became a little too honest with you and now neither of you know what to do." That did it. Aziraphale, teetering on the edge, fell off the cliff and into full-on dithering mode.

"How—how?"

"Well, I am half-angelic. I had to inherit something."

"Angelic intelligence..."

"Or wisdom, at any rate, and they seem to be becoming ever more similar. True wisdom, that is, not this cockamamie false wisdom being tossed around in the name of art." Franz paused, glancing at the ceiling. "Sorry, Sir. Love your neighbor and all that—I'm working on it, I promise. Always working on it." He returned his attention back to Aziraphale. "Where exactly was I? Oh yes, Crowley. How did you react?"

"Wisdom... are you attempting to convey that you saw this coming?"

Franz looked him in the eyes. "You hadn't?" Aziraphale's face, ever honest, registered surprise. "Aziraphale, I know you've never thought much of it, but consider the situation for a moment. Why else would a _demon_ choose to spend the majority of his time with a certified Principality?"

Dumbfounded, the angel replied, "We're the only two supernatural entities in Britain... we've known each other since the Beginning."

"Yes, but _why_? Why spend over six thousand years with one real friend—and even go so far as to save the world together?"

"Well..." It was a good question, one he had not thoroughly thought about before. Before, he'd just figured that they had known each other so long it didn't really matter. "I help him," the angel finished.

"You keep a continuing acquaintance to make him less hellish. Is that correct?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"Okay. Why then, knowing your motive—after all, he can't be stupid—would Crowley keep a continuing acquaintance with you? Theoretically, any demon would avoid an angel like the bubonic plague."

"Except for Crowley," Aziraphale said pensively.

"Exactly, dear."

* * *

The sun appeared in the windows of Crowley's flat and was not at all surprised to find him still on the sofa. His hair was mussed and he had morning breath, but all outward appearances aside he had not slept all night. His eyes were wide open, as they had been for hours; occult beings, apparently, did not need to blink. This, coupled with the hair and what were clearly the clothes from the night before, would have made one think he was some kind of heroin addict were it not for the healthful glow he projected. With the healthful glow, he simply appeared to be someone who, after a night of dinner and dancing, is surprised to discover that he is not in his own apartment (2).

"Ngk," muttered Crowley. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone without sleep. True, he didn't technically _need_ to sleep, but he'd gotten into the habit. He was, to put it bluntly, a sleep addict, suffering from self-imposed withdrawal. That was his punishment: to stay up all night and listen to James Brown on repeat, without even twitching a toe to the beat. Normally, he disagreed with punishment—why should people get in trouble for a little bit of fun?—but this time he knew he had been a royal idiot. This way, he would remember to never be that stupid again.

If only Aziraphale wasn't so frickin' serious. Obviously it had been a joke, but it was clear Aziraphale hadn't gotten the humor. And why was that, anyway? The angel couldn't have _honestly_ believed he had been serious. Crowley could get anyone he wanted, regardless of gender. Why would he choose Aziraphale?

It was actually a very good question.

Crowley shook off his subconscious and, miracling himself the equivalent of an hour's grooming, headed off to return the CD. The sliding doors opened silently and he strode in, sunglasses perfectly placed on his nose. To say it was a far cry from what was on the couch earlier was an understatement.

Amanda, at register two today, brightened considerably. The several screaming children and their temperamental mother twenty minutes before had put her in a bit of a foul mood, but now the day was looking unexpectedly full of promise. He came back! The man was undoubtedly gorgeous—in fact, Amanda extrapolated, he must have been some dark, brooding, disillusioned heir to a rather tidy fortune. With those looks he wasn't suited for anything else—except for maybe a spy, and either way she was thrilled. In any case he was a man of mystery. One with exceptionally good cheekbones, no less.

Images of lighthouses at twilight flashed through her mind as Crowley strode toward the register. Hurriedly she plastered on her most seductive smile.

Crowley tried not to look at the girl. There was something about the wideness of her eyes and the force of her smile that was a little... _off-putting_, even for him. "_Hi!_" She sounded identical to the day before.

"I want to return this," the man stated, giving no indication they had met. He pulled the CD out of the bag and plunked it on the counter.

"Oh," said the girl, visibly disappointed. So he wasn't there for her, then. Like anyone ever was. He was just there to return some dumb CD, some dumb—

"James Brown?" she asked, puzzled. "This is the one you bought yesterday, isn't it? What's wrong with it?"

"I hate James Brown. That's what's wrong."

Boys were so dumb, honestly, the lot of them. Amanda, now feeling rejected on top of irritable, fixed on him a look of annoyed condescence. "Why d'you buy this then?"

"Hey, you work for _me_, remember? Just shut up and do your job."

She immediately glued a smile to her face and did so. "Piss off," she said sweetly. "And have a nice day!"

The irony of these two statements did not pass by Crowley unnoticed, and on any other day he would have grinned.

* * *

(1)This moment brought to you by years of practice in the mirror.

(2)Of course, this _was_ Crowley's apartment, but passersby wouldn't know that so it is besides the point.


	6. Chapter 6

_DISCLAIMER: Yet again, I own nothing but the character of Franz. I am but a poor writer, hungry for reviews.

* * *

_

Seth Cohen was being held against his will, and he did not like it one bit.

"Summer, come _on_," he pleaded. "We've been here so long I may physically die of boredom."

His girlfriend, Summer, studied her turquoise-booted feet in the mirror. "What do you think of these ones?" she asked distractedly, momentarily glancing at the large pile of shoeboxes on the floor to her left.

"I _think_ they are the same as the last pair."

"Those were aqua!" she said defensively. "These are turquoise. God, Cohen, are you blind?"

"Summer, _please_," he begged, the plea in his voice increasing to whine level. "We've been here three hours!"

After a few minutes of hedging over which shoes to buy, Summer eventually purchased the first pair she'd tried and they left the store. Walking over the Soho back streets—for, as Summer insisted, one couldn't go to London and _not_ swing through the underground fashion capital of the world—their arms around each other, Seth suddenly saw a shining light in the distance amongst all the hipster boutiques and pubs. A sanctuary, if you will.

It was a bookshop of the old and dusty variety—his favorite kind. Big chain stores were nice and all, but they didn't have _character_ like real bookshops did. Then again, this place was not likely to have the latest Chuck Klosterman, but that was minor enough to be overlooked. Eagerly he drew them toward the shop entrance.

Through the large picture window two men could be seen staring at each other behind the counter, both blond, one balding and one looking uncertain. Either they were related, or... well, judging by the attire of Señor Uncertain, another type of relationship could be interpreted. In any case, the tension could be felt even outside the shop, bristling against the window. Summer, however, was never one to avoid awkward or uncomfortable situations. She raised a fist and banged on the glass.

Inside the shop, two heads whipped around to face them. Señor Uncertain—who, they now saw, looked like a living J. Crew catalog—hurried over to let them in. Seth stepped inside cautiously, hesitant to encounter any kind of domestic quarrel, but any previous quarrels seemed to have been put on hold as the cardigan-clad man turned a smiling face upon them. "Is there anything I may help you with?" asked Uncertain, who then introduced himself as a Mr. Fell. Seth assured him there was nothing, that they were browsing, and to his relief the bookshop owner left them alone.

Aziraphale returned to the counter and an indignant-looking Franz. "When are you so eager for customers?" his cousin whispered urgently.

"I can't leave them outside, it's cloudy. It could storm on the poor dears." He focused his attentions on the small bundle of calligraphy pens next to the register. The pile was looking awfully untidy.

Franz disapproved of this poor lie, but let it go. "Oh. Well, I suppose I shall be off then. Things to do, you know." Aziraphale looked up, smiling, and nodded quickly before returning to the pens. Several minutes passed before the angel deemed the pile neat enough for his liking. Unfortunately, he noted that the two teenagers remained browsing. Rarely had he had customers spend so much time simply looking around; undoubtedly, this anomaly was due in part to the astounding amount of diversions the two found just by being in each other's company. Buying a book, it seemed, was becoming less of an actual plan and more of a theoretical idea used to tease each other. Aziraphale's inner softie(1) smiled. Their witty banter was quite cute, he thought, and somewhat familiar. Perhaps he had been listening to a bit too much of that newfangled "talk radio."

Or perhaps not, he realized with a jolt. The witty banter going on between the two teens sounded a smidgen like... well, like some of the conversations between he and Crowley.

In the corner of the bookshop, Seth kissed a giggly Summer on the nose as a fretting owner watched from the register.

* * *

It was late, and Aziraphale was all but plagued with nerves.

He sat at the table, a elegantly-shaped glass of wine in his hand, glancing at the clock. It was quite late... or early, his brain pointed out. It all depended how you chose to look at it. In any respect, Franz had been gone for far too long. Far, far too many hours. He took a sip of Moet and waited anxiously.

He sat, waited, thought. He imagined. Eventually his alcohol-enlivened musings turned toward the old days, and his posture slumped a little. He missed the old days, when the world was flat and the Host united. Before Lucifer Morningstar had torn apart what was meant to be the epitome of peace, and the creation of Hell had stretched the Earth into a sphere. Before airplanes, or speed trains, or freeways; before they were needed, because there was no distance to hold them back.

A small, rational voice in the back of his head told him to stop being silly. _You can't second-guess ineffability_, it reminded him politely. _Things are better now; did we have tartan in the old days? Of course not. Be sensible._

Aziraphale straightened up in his seat, miracled the alcohol of his system, and waited.

* * *

(1) Approximately 82 of him.

* * *

_Read and review¡por favor!_


	7. Chapter 7

_DISCLAIMER:_ _I own nothing but Franz, as always._

* * *

The Swedish ivy on the corner end table was about to die, and it wasn't too happy about the idea.

A threateningly generic squirt bottle hung suspended in the air, held up solely by a hand completely normal in appearance. Next to the bottle leered a face that could have modeled for Clearasil if it desired, the sculpted cheekbones made even more godlike by the light from the window. Unfortunately, not a very benevolent one, but like a god nonetheless. The ivy wasn't mentally challenged, and it knew that the liquid in the bottle, as clear as it appeared, could be anything. Heck, vodka even.

The hand redoubled its grip on the bottle, and the Swedish ivy prepared for death. It might not be so bad. In a way, it would be more natural than life so far. Returning to the earth, and all that.

There was a polite knock on the door.

Cursing under his breath, Crowley withdrew from the corner and left the Swedish ivy to revel in its good fortune. Although, to be honest, he didn't mind much—the cursing was just for show, to keep the houseplants on their toes. Only one person in the entire world, the One Above it and the One Below, did he know of that could make a knock on someone's door sound polite. Putting on a look of cool boredom, he opened the door.

"Hello, Crowley," said Franz, looking as though he had gotten lost on the way to the malt shop. "May I come in?"

Crowley stared. "No."

"Thank you." Somehow, despite Crowley standing in the doorway, Franz stepped inside without once brushing against the demon's black blazer. "You live here, I take it? It doesn't look very lived-in." Crowley muttered something inaudible, and Franz nodded wisely, pretending to have heard.

"Who are you?"

Franz turned toward the demon, looking a little surprised and hurt. "You don't remember me? I'm Franz. Aziraphale's third cousin? We met at that party."

"Yeah, yeah," said Crowley vaguely, recalling. Aziraphale had dragged him to Franz's birthday, saying that he hadn't been to a party since nearly the first Christmas and needed social support. Now, looking at Franz, the demon wasn't sure why he had not recognized him. The resemblance to Aziraphale was a bit jarring (1). If one were to take the angel's head, add about five years to the face and subtract about five thousand hairs from the crown, he or she would find an almost exact replica of the man standing in the living room.

"This is a rather nice place you have here."

Crowley didn't respond to the compliment. It was general knowledge. "What are you doing in my flat?"

Franz turned, fixing him with a look. The look that, for many of the newcomers to Purgatory, meant That's Enough Funny Business, I Want to Straighten This All Out Today. At the support group, they all knew that indicated it was time to shut up and listen. Crowley, however, who was unaware of what exactly Franz could accomplish when on a mission (and, furthermore, had dealt with beings a whole lot more terrifying), merely smirked.

"'Our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions,'" Franz quoted, "'because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams, instead of the tough fiber of the human heart.'" He smiled sagely, as though that answered the question.

Crowley raised his left eyebrow. It was the only one he could arch effectively.

"'We snatch at the slowest fruit in the whole garden of God'—well, _you_ do, at any rate—'which many summers and many winters must ripen. We seek our friend not sacredly, but with an adulterate passion, which would appropriate him to ourselves. In vain.'" A hesitation, as though he expected Crowley to suddenly comprehend and shout _Eureka_! Nothing of the sort happened, and so he prompted, "Do you understand now?"

It had been a while since the demon had read the Bible, but that sounded a bit too modern to be Scripture. "Let me guess: Johnathan Edwards, Sparknotes edition."

"No, but good one." The smile brightened. "It's Emerson, actually. Brilliant, isn't he? The statements he makes are so universal."

"Sure, they are."

The smile faded from Franz's face and he looked Crowley right in the eyes. Well, sunglasses, but close enough. "Why am I here... Well, to put it plainly, Aziraphale's all in a _mood_. The poor dear is moping around the bookshop, and even _welcoming customers_—to, I believe, distract himself from something."

The demon feigned nonchalance. "So he's finally given in to materialism."

Franz, waited, counting the seconds before he dropped the bomb. "This morning I dropped in to check up and I found him sleeping on the couch."

The look of nonchalance Crowley had so perfected over the centuries fell apart faster than a Bentley on fire. Perhaps faster than a Daewoo (2). Aziraphale, sleeping? Since when ddi the angel sleep? He had always said it was a waste of time and vaguely Slothlike. Why would he start now?

"He refuses to explain why he's in such a state, but I know it has something to do with you," added his visitor, almost in a furor. If Crowley didn't know any better he might have mistaken the man for an archangel, he was so wrathful in his tranquility.

"Nothing happened." The look of cool nonchalance reasserted itself. Who was he, barging in the flat, demanding an explanation? And yet, it was clear Franz had only Aziraphale's best interests at heart.

"Tell me what occurred between the two of you to make him so upset, or I will draw my own conclusions. They are already sketched out to an extent, and so far not looking very auspicious for you."

Crowley almost laughed at this pseudo-threat. Like the little angel would do anything to hurt him. Like he even _could_.

"I'm not actually an angel, you know," Franz said conversationally, as though he knew what the demon was thinking. "Not yet; I can't even Fall. And half of heaven hates—or at the very least strongly dislikes—me already, because they blame me for my father's downfall. Really, I'm a sort of rogue agent, I suppose." There was the smile again—not full of serenity this time, but merely an exercise in stretching muscles, and even a little bit sad. "Anyhow, I would very much like to hear your side of the story." He sat down on the leather recliner, casually, as though he threatened people every day.

Being a demon, especially one involved in averting the Apocalypse, had some requirements that came with the job description. For example, one had to be obstinate and fairly daring. It was for this reason that Crowley told Franz exactly where he could put his bloody conclusions. In response, the sweater-vested visitor stood up from the recliner, slowly sauntered over to where Crowley stood in front of the stereo and looked directly into his face.

Franz may have been shorter than the demon by several centimeters, but from a distance of twelve inches he was a force to be reckoned with—however diminutive. In spite of the numerous otherworldly events Crowley had been witness (or executor) of—or perhaps due to them—he would not have been at all surprised to see tiny lightning bolts come blazing out of Franz's eyes and ricochet around the flat. This, more than anything, caused the demon to roll his eyes in frustration. Sod it all.

"Please explain to me what happened, so I can help him. He refuses to speak about what's bothering him," spoke Franz in his best therapist voice.

Bloody guilt washing over him. He had been hanging around that dratted angel too long... and now, he realized with horror, he had just thought the word _dratted_. Bugger. Quickly, muttering, Crowley related the gist of the incident. "It was a _joke_," he added irritably. "Bloody angel has no sense of humor." He felt strange, now; his chest was empty, as though all the muscle and tendons and bone had snuck out of the house to go to the type of party where there would almost certainly be dangerous influences and life-changing decisions. For a brief moment he forgot he had a guest.

"Oh, all right then," replied Franz. "I believe my dear cousin is under the impression you were serious. Well, we have to correct that, then... I _do _like these sunglasses, by the way," he added offhandedly. Deftly his hand reached up and took Crowley's glasses, studying them with sharp interest.

It felt odd not wearing his trademark shades, and the demon did not like it in the least. "Yes, very nice eyewear... You're sure it was a joke?" his visitor inquired abruptly, glancing up.

Their eyes locked, Crowley acutely aware that his Ray-Bans were currently in Franz's hand. No more hiding behind plastic, now. The sensation of just seeing the world through his own eyes was unpleasant and he disliked it with an intensity that gleamed intheir gold-green hues. By association, he intensely disliked Franz for taking them from him. Opening his mouth to confirm that yes, he was definite it had all been a prank, he hesitated. Franz had taken his sunglasses, and in doing so was seeing him as he was...

No more hiding, behind plastic or otherwise.

Maybe, suggested the voice of a tiny revolutionary, it hadn't been solely in jest. Maybe, it piped up from a dark cobwebby corner, there had been a tiny snippet of truth in it. A nugget, if he would.

His mouth muscles stopped being lazy and connected with his brain. "I don't know." Muscle and tendons and bone returned to his chest and collapsed in a tipsy heap, giggling madly. A demon and an angel—hardy har har.

For some reason, this statement caused Franz supreme delight. "_I knew it_! I predicted this _years ago_! Oh, you two always seemed like such an adorable couple, you know. Frankly, it's surprising it took so long for you to notice." He returned the sunglasses to their proper place and, exhilarated, hugged him around the middle. "I knew it—I knew there was a reason why you were always cavorting around at the Ritz!" In the midst of his excitement, the constant stream of words subsided and he withdrew from the hug, looking pensive. "However..."

Crowley, normally so cool and in control, was feeling a tad overwhelmed. "However, there is a little problem of Aziraphale." For once in his life the demon didn't know what to do, and therefore busied himself with adjusting the shades on his nose. "You see, I spoke to him about it and he seems to be entirely taken by surprise. One would think angelic intelligence would have covered that by now, but I suppose not."

Crowley felt like he was being strangled. Or, rather, like he _wanted_ to strangle. "Spoke to him? As in, 'What nice weather we have today, dear cousin. Oh, and by the way, did you know that your demonic friend has the hots for you'?"

"Not in those exact terms, not at all. I simply pointed out that it is a bit odd for a demon to spend his free time hanging around with an angel..."

Murder would fall under Wrath, would it not?

"...He's likely been pondering it over for several hours by now, so you ought to go talk to him immediately." He shivered with excitement. "Oh, I called this one, as the kids say!"

Franz was lucky the demon had the sunglasses again. As it was he barely escaped melting into a puddle on the hardwood. "Why bother? It was perfectly fine when he had no clue. Now you've gone and filled his head with _ideas_," he spat out.

His guest sighed in resignation. "I might've known you wouldn't listen to me. Hold on a moment." He disappeared for a minute and returned with a pale-faced, mustached man in tow. "This is my friend Farrokh." The man glanced at him. "Oh, my apologies. Freddie, sorry."

Crowley stared. As pale as the man was, and despite the fact that he was clad in pajamas, there was an air about him. If Crowley scented of cool, he oozed of it. "Anyhow," Franz continued, "I sensed that you wouldn't listen to a word from me, so I brought him along to help. And please be kind," he added as an afterthought. "You have little idea how much paperwork it took to get him on this plane again." Fleetingly, he turned and vanished out the door.

The two men stared at each other, and Crowley vaguely wondered if the mustached visitor had heard the entire discussion. "So," the demon fumbled. "Did you hear all that earlier?" The man nodded. "Great, bloody superb," he muttered under his breath.

"I don't know you, but I have to wonder," the man began. "Why can't you give love that one more chance?" Crowley said nothing, just stood there. "'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word? And love dares you to care for not only other people, but to change the way of caring for yourself?"

It was, he had to admit, a good question. Bugger.

* * *

(1) That is, it would be were Crowley less suave. As it was he barely blinked, but as he didn't blink often this was hardly a shocker.

(2) On fire or otherwise.


	8. Chapter 8

_DISCLAIMER:_ _Only Franz is mine; I do not own anything related to_ Good Omens_ other than a paperback edition. If I did, I wouldn't be writing this fanfictionfroma non-LCD, non-flatscreen computer; rather, I would type with a state-of-the-art iMac laptop. One of those nice ones with cool programs that allow you to make your own garage band or edit music._

* * *

"Pardon?" inquired the angel. "What was it you were saying?"

"I _said_, you don't get wings that way," said the demon.

"Oh. Yes," said the angel called Aziraphale. "Well, and why not, dear boy?" He was sitting primly at a small table in the Ritz tearoom, conversing with Crowley, although how they had gotten to be there he was not entirely sure of. "Pray tell."

"You don't get your wings by singing, it's tricky," replied Crowley, and withdrew his sunglasses. Then suddenly Crowley ceased to be Crowley—Aziraphale realized with an oddly muted chill that the person sitting across from him was not the demon he knew, but a pale mustached man with a look of terrible sadness in his eyes. "You get them by kissing," the man continued. "Tricky thing."

Surprisingly enough, the angel remained composed, thinking of his own wings. What a fascinating theory; unfounded, clearly, but fascinating nonetheless. Then he recalled some long-lost image of the demon's own wings, and blushed in embarrassment. The teacup shook in his hand, spilling a few drops of precious Earl Grey, and the maitre d'—looking strangely Franzesque—hastened over bearing cloth napkins.

Aziraphale awoke on the couch to find a near-empty bottle of red wine on the end table and his first edition of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ lying open on the floor. Taped to the bottle was a scrap of his best stationery, presumably torn from the pad, with the words _Out doing errands; will be back soon—Franz_ scribbled in pencil. Remembering the night before, he sat up as fast as he possibly could and pursed his lips in disapproval. Franz had completely disappeared for almost... well, almost twenty-seven hours now. Where on Earth could he go for so long? Even a motion picture ended after two or three hours.

He shook his head, trying to erase the dream from his memory, but to no avail. The man's words hung in the air, floating around aimlessly and tickling his ears. _You get them by kissing. Tricky thing_. Such a preposterous idea Aziraphale had never heard in all his lives. And yet it seemed to snicker and increase in volume until all he heard was this one phrase, repeated over and over: _Tricky thing... it's tricky. Tricky... tricky... tricky..._ Soon the word lost all meaning and it merely became a sound bouncing around his skull. It made sense, however, he thought, that kissing would be tricky. Heaven knew that love was tricky enough. That is, he assumed it was; he'd seen enough films and overheard enough conversations to understand the difficulties and dualities of the concept.

Contrary to what one might believe, angels were not specially equipped to deal with falling in love. Aziraphale may have had an abnormally deep understanding of love and its inherent emotions, but at the same time he knew very little. Being created with a profound love and compassion for all living things had its downside, like everything else on Earth. His infinite capacity for love was the exact reason why he _couldn't_ love—he could love everything to an extent, but was almost entirely incapable of loving any one thing more than all others.

It was then, while lying on the couch and looking disoriented, that he decided to get up and do something he hadn't done in a while.

Humans, he thought, did not quite realize how lucky they had it. Today at St. James, for example, the number of visitors was not nearly what it used to be; the ducks circled the pond looking dejected and hungry. In sympathy Aziraphale strayed from his intended meander around the park and stood by the water, producing a loaf of bread from his lapel. He tossed a piece of rye to an imploring young mallard and mused, stroking his chin. On the other hand, it was kind of nice to have the park to himself. The quiet atmosphere(1) recalled his days by the Eastern Gate—beautiful in simplicity.

A cheerful young couple, twentysomething and holding hands, stopped by the pond and stood watching the ducks. The young woman, in typical romance-movie fashion, laid her head on the man's shoulder; Aziraphale felt like a bit of a busybody seeing this display of affection, but they _had_ chosen to stand directly opposite him. Their identically euphoric smiles, however, shamed him into dropping the last piece of bread into the water and walking off.

He wandered down the path until he reached the gazebo. Perhaps the barbershop quartet, he supposed, would make him a bit less melancholy. Since seeing that couple he had been feeling somewhat lovelorn; although he disliked admitting it, _he_ wanted to be the man with someone's head resting on his shoulder. To an extent, at any rate. After being surrounded by humans for several thousand years, one began to wonder what, exactly, falling in love would be like. For Aziraphale, who cherished compassion and love above all else, it was almost disheartening. He wanted to experience something like that; however, his angelic makeup had caused it to elude him. Ah, well.

The quartet was rather talented, wasn't it? The harmonies sounded surprisingly mellifluous coming from such novices. Then it struck him that one of the singers wasn't a novice at all—almost the opposite, in fact. "Franz?"

His cousin waved and broke away from the group, sauntering down the steps. "Why, hello."

"Where _were_ you for the last"—Aziraphale checked his watch—"twenty-eight-and-a-half hours?"

"Out and about," replied Franz, waving a hand in the air. "Revisiting London."

"For over a _day_? Where were you last night, with _drug people_?"

"'_Drug people_'?"

"Well, you're my kin. I have a responsibility towards keeping you safe... or at the very least not inconveniently discorporated."

Franz sighed. He always had a spot of trouble lying to the angel. "If you insist on knowing, I went to see your demon friend."

Aziraphale's face registered massive astonishment. "Crowley?"

"Yes, Crowley. He's not a bad guy, really, for the eternally damned. And he likes you," Franz added earnestly.

* * *

Crowley himself was in his flat, feeling newly purged. Over the course of the last few hours he had managed to summarize almost every significant event concerning he and the angel since Eden, as well as the whole of the Armageddon affair. Freddie had sat in silence, nodding every so often—it turned out that Mr. Mercury was an excellent listener—and then proceeded to give Crowley a short pep talk (2). All of this made him feel a tad more cheerful than earlier, and he stood complacent for once as the visitor fixed him with a look. 

"Who are you, Crowley?" Freddie questioned.

Crowley mumbled something almost unintelligible.

"Say that again."

"A guna fahsund lubaba" was all he could comprehend.

"Again."

"_A good old-fashioned loverboy_!" the demon shouted in dual enthusiasm and frustration. "Are you happy now?"

The visitor ignored him, rather responding with another question. "And what is it that you want?"

Crowley thought that perhaps he should not have revealed so much earlier. "To dine at the Ritz at nine o'clock as usual, where we always taste the wine and I pay the bill, right, and drive back in the Bentley."

Freddie smiled, and for a moment it seemed as though he were living. The doorknob rattled.

"And what are you to do now?"

Crowley didn't answer—there was a polite knock on the door and a faint call from outside. "Crowley? Far—er, -eddie?" The demon dodged around the visitor and went over to the door, unlocking it crisply. Franz stepped inside, his hair a little disheveled, as though he had just been tackled by an overzealous rugby player (3). "How are things around here?" he asked, clapping his hands together. "Everything going well?"

Freddie nodded and Franz reciprocated, nearly beaming. "Perfect! Just perfect, as"—he glanced at his watch—"you've got to get back, Freddie, I promised the higher-ups that you would be back by this afternoon. It's an awful amount of paperwork, you know," he added, glancing toward Crowley, "paperwork that increases if one doesn't return with their charge by the indicated time. Not that you are my charge here, Freddie, per se, but you know how things are with management. You know Debbie."

Freddie nodded dutifully. Yes, he knew Purgatory's receptionist for London very well. "If you want to chat later, mate, tell Franz and he'll set up a meeting." It was the afterlife's equivalent of _Have your people call my people_, the demon mused.

"Good day!" called Franz, smiling, and the two were gone.

Crowley was left standing in his pure-white living room, staring at the pure-white door, and he knew what he had to do.

* * *

(1) Excusing the amateur barbershop quartet in the gazebo, that is. 

(2) Albeit one peppered with bombastic musical orations and grand arm gestures.

(3) Which, in actuality, is exactly what happened. Franz and Aziraphale had been strolling down the park's bicycle path when a large teenager, in the midst of an informal rugby game, leaped to catch the ball and landed right smack into him.


	9. Chapter 9

_DISCLAIMER: Once again, I own nothing related to _Good Omens_. I do own a purple tartan umbrella, though._

* * *

Crowley wrenched the door open, ready to dash down the hall, but stopped himself. _No_. He had to look cool, calm, casual. Reassuringly he adjusted the sunglasses on his nose and, relaxing his posture, strode down the third-floor hallway as though it were a catwalk and he an overindulgent rockstar. He walked with a purpose, which was at any rate appropriate enough.

He shook the hair out of his eyes—he'd been experimenting with the length recently—and sauntered on. When he reached the stairs experience told him that sauntering would be difficult and he settled for slouching in a manner that only the truly cool could pull off, all hips and bravado. Now, slouching down the stairs, Crowley tried to focus on what to say upon reaching the bookshop. Would Aziraphale even want to speak to him? Would he just pull the "oh my, it's getting late" routine to avoid him? Or would he even be there? No, of course he would be there. He was _always_ there. Where else did he have to go? Meandering through the train compartments of thought, Crowley landed on the stairwell and turned to continue down the next set of steps. Abruptly he stopped in mid-slouch.

"Oh, hello," said Aziraphale, taking off his bowler hat. Crowley stared. "I was hoping to catch you. Where are you off to?"

"To see you—to apologize—"

Aziraphale waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense; you weren't quite yourself."

He had to acknowledge it was true. "Right. I was a bit smashed, wasn't I?"

The angel frowned. "Sometimes I don't understand your methods of expression."

"You know, tanked?" Vacuous confusion settled on Aziraphale's face and pitched a tent, ready for a long stay. "Corked? Sloshed? Jazzed? Zozzled? Plastered? Embalmed? Owled?" Crowley tried. "_Spifflicated_?"

Recognition, like two miniature suns, dawned in the angel's eyes. The vacuous confusion grumpily gathered up the tent and left. "Spifflicated, yes, you were quite drunk. No need to apologize; in fact, _I_ came to apologize to you." He clutched the bowler hat tightly in his hands, looking for all the world like an anxious traveling salesman.

Crowley blinked. Apologize? What did the angel ever have to apologize for?

Aziraphale sensed the latent incomprehension in the demon's face and plunged on. "I am sincerely sorry, Crowley," he explained, "for anything I may have said or done thatledyou to your... proclamation from the other night." He studied him, noting the familiar disaffected pout on his face, the awkward posturing, the trademark sunglasses. Behind those plastic lenses, angelic intelligence whispered, Crowley was not quite as disaffected as he wanted to seem; seeing him now, after Franz's little speech earlier, it was clear something lay beneath his cool facade. A struggle rose in Aziraphale's mind and he redoubled his grip on the hat. At some point, preferably soon, he would have to say something.

The angel and the demon stared at each other, standing at the exact midpoint between the floor above and the floor below.

"Let's go," said Aziraphale, finally. "I want to show you something." He put the bowler hat back atop his head and took Crowley by the arm.

* * *

After ensuring that Aziraphale had safely gotten in the building, Franz bade the cabbie to take him to the nearest store. He had promised Debbie, one of Purgatory's many receptionists, to bring her back some chewing gum(1), and figured that he may as well get some now.

The taxicab pulled up in front of a large, nondescript brick building. Franz considered leaving Freddie in the cab, but shrugged and waved at him to come on. It wasn't as though he would be noticed anyway (2). They entered the store, a corporate shrine to fluorescent light and bargain prices, and Franz went over to the registers to find a recognizable brand of gum. The blond girl at the register, he noticed, looked somewhat melancholy. Recently jilted, he guessed.

Freddie, hanging back, nudged him in the ribs. "She looks down," he pointed out.

"That's what I was thinking." Franz pretended to deliberate over the choices of chewing gum, studying her discreetly. The teenager looked bored and mopey, but like the type of person who would (when feeling more cheerful) listen to... to... Franz strove to remember the band favored by Roberta, the sixteen-year-old from the support group. The Obscurity? The Blackness? The _Darkness_! That was it. The cashier girl looked like someone who would listen to The Darkness.

After purchasing the gum they strode over to the music section of the store and Franz began pawing through the CDs. Ah, here it was. He pulled out the disc, triumphant, and Freddie gave him an offended look. In reply Franz pulled the rockstar over to a listening station and thrust a pair of headphones at him. Putting on the headphones, Freddie stood for a minute or two listening intently, head bobbing. "It's not bad," he said in concession.

While Freddie listened, Franz scanned the section for teenagers. It was a firmly-held belief of his that everyone deserved a happy ending, and damned if he wasn't going to help. He spied a Mohawk-wearing boy, about seventeen, standing further down the aisle. Perfect. Girls today liked that sort of thing, didn't they? The "bad boy," as the kids said? Yes, yes, they did, if what Roberta said held any weight. Excellent.

The Mohawker looked pensive, torn between The Clash in his left hand and The Kinks in his right. "Excuse me," Franz articulated. The boy looked up and over. "Excuse me, but I do believe I have a solution to your problem." He took the CD from the listening station and displayed it gallantly. It was another firmly-held belief of his that music could save the world.

_You expect me to buy that?_ asked the teenager's eyes.

"I'll give you the money," said Franz's vocal cords. "You don't have to pay for it, really."

_You're one sketchy bloke,_ replied the teenager's eyes, but he took the money anyway.

Franz watched from a distance as the Mohawked boy went up to the register. "I _love_ The Darkness!" squealed the cashier excitedly. The boy smiled.

"Come on, Freddie," Franz said, and they left.

* * *

They took the Bentley to the bookshop, riding in awkward silence, and Crowley arched an eyebrow. What would the angel have to show him _here_? He'd been there a million times. He'd seen everything Aziraphale owned, which wasn't much, and sucked down all his wine. Anything he wanted to show off, Crowley would have been shown already.

Aziraphale hurried into the back room and locked the door behind them. The eyebrow rose.

Making sure no passersby could peer in—apointless task in the windowless room—Aziraphale pressed his hands together and seemed nervous. Crowley couldn't take it anymore. "_What's going on_?"

The angel's shoulders twitched, as though he had forgotten there was someone present. Hastily he went to a floor cabinet in the corner of the room and opened it, gesturing to Crowley. "This is what I wanted to show you," he explained.

The demon walked over and got on his knees to squint into the cabinet. He probably had dust all over his jeans, now, but he could always miracle it away later. Paper clogged the cabinet, individual sheets sticking out randomly from the stacks, just barely visible within the dark space. Crowley gave Aziraphale a quizzical look. "Here," said the angel in reply, pulling out the stacks one by one. The expectation seemed to be that Crowley would read it.

While Crowley stared at the piles in question—was he seriously waiting for him to read it all? there had to be thirty or forty of them—Aziraphale stood up and brushed off his khakis. "Well, go on."

With obvious reluctance the demon picked up the first sheet in front of him and began to read. Aziraphale unlocked the door, exited, and relocked it. He wasn't going to give the demon an opportunity to get out of it. But reading all that _would_ take a while, and he rather felt like some cocoa.

Two cups of cocoa and one _Pride & Prejudice_ later, he returned to the back room. Crowley glanced up. Aziraphale noted the weary expression on the demon's face, and felt a tiny zap of guilt on locking him in. "Almost done," he said, holding up a slim sheaf of paper.

"Jolly good." Aziraphale sat down at the small table, waiting.

After several minutes, Crowley put down the paper and joined him at the table. "So, it's a record of the history of the Earth?"

"Yes."

"In epic poetry."

"That's right," the angel replied. "What do you think?"

"I think you have too much free time and too little friends."

The angel waved the comment away dismissively.

"I noticed," said Crowley, doing his best at nonchalance, "that I'm the only demon mentioned by name."

"Other than Lucifer, yes. But he's sort of necessary."

"Right. And that means what?"

The angel folded his arms on the table, interlocking his fingers together. It almost looked as though he were praying. "I've been thinking, Crowley, and I'm not too certain I can do this." He unlocked his fingers, reaching across the table. "But I'd like to make an attempt."

The demon blinked. "I'm a demon, angel. If not for good, why risk Falling?"

Aziraphale smiled sagely. "Exactly. Don't second-guess Ineffability, I always say."

Crowley boggled. "But..."

"To be frank, dear boy, I don't give a damn."

* * *

Franz entered quietly, hanging up his coat on the hat stand near the door. From the other room he could hear his cousin's voice, and he beamed. 

Yes, everyone deserved a happy ending.

* * *

(1) She claimed candy—gum in particular—just wasn't as good as it was on Earth. Less flavorful, she said. 

(2) Perhaps at this juncture an explanation would be helpful. The massive amount of paperwork necessary to bring someone to Earth was due to the legal contracts inherent in reviving the dead. You wouldn't understand the physics, but the basic gist was that Freddie, being extremely well-known, was visible only to select people, those outlined in his contract (i.e., Crowley, Franz and Aziraphale). To all others he simply would not exist.

As for Franz, he was not a recognizable public figure and therefore was visible to everyone _but _specific people outlined in his contract.


End file.
